


Little Grey Voices

by Mr_Dadamy_Blake



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Addiction, Anxiety, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Dadamy_Blake/pseuds/Mr_Dadamy_Blake
Summary: “Turns out there isn't a Chicken Soup for the Alcoholic Hockey Captains Soul.”“That’s… a little specific.” Kent croaked.





	Little Grey Voices

**Author's Note:**

> what the hell can i say...  
> Ok so like fair warning this will deal with addiction, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts.

Swoops, sweet, darling Swoops. Is getting punched in the face as we speak. Why you might ask? Well, it’s because he said this,

“Parson you need help.” That was Kent’s greeting, what merits the punching is the next thing Swoops said, “You're gonna drink yourself into an early fucking grave. Do you even know how much you’ve drunk since last night? Do you even  _ remember  _ last night?”

“ _ Fuck you.” _ is Kent’s response and a nice fist to the face. Marcus Troy wasn’t a smart guy, or in this regard a guy with a single ounce of tact, but he didn’t get the name Swoops because of these things. Markie got the nickname because the fucker somehow always seemed to be swooping in to help in the most unconventional ways off the ice and the most aggressively conventional way  _ on  _ the ice. “I know for a fact that  _ you  _ don’t remember shit from last night.”

“But I know enough man, and besides this is like a once a month occurrence with me, this happens to you  _ every time we go out drinking. _ ” Swoops stood up from the floor and despite wanting to throw him out at the moment, Kent was still Captain and he would never turn away his teammates no matter how pissed he was at them. 

“Why do you even care? I’m only captain because I’m good on the ice. Don’t pretend like you give a shit.” Swoops looked like he wanted to punch Kent now. Kent wouldn’t blame him if he did. But when Swoops lifted his arms and Kent flinched, Swoops hesitated. Kent let out a small breath of surprise when, instead of being met with a fist, he’s pushed gently until the back of his legs hit the front of his couch and he’s being sat down. 

“You’re right.” That was the real punch. Kent gasped for air driving in the knife Swoops had plunged in his chest further in. Something small, old, and gnarly with horrible glee sunk it’s claws as it whispered:  _ they don’t care, they don’t care.  _ “You are good on the ice. But when you manage to be sober enough you're also caring and determined to make sure all the rookies are settled in. You also get on our asses about correct form in practice and during training, and about visiting the trainers and making sure we attend all doctor appointments when we’re supposed to.”

Kent looked anywhere except Swoops’ eyes, which he could feel cut through all of his bullshit. Kent, Kent wanted to drown. He wanted to be literally anywhere else. He wanted the nightmare to stop, and to think it looked like a dream when he was a kid. Kent wondered what it would take for him to do it all over again. To go back into the past and warn himself.  _ Stay away from him. He’ll only hurt you. You’ll only hurt him, and it will all be your fault in the end.  _ To go back and find himself and say  _ Go to his bathroom, tell him you lied. Tell him you do care, don’t be an idiot. Don’t be a murderer.  _

_ Don’t be a murderer.  _ Kent looked up. Saw Swoops looking down at him with hard eyes.  _ Don’t be a murderer.  _ Kent swallows.  _ Don’t be a murderer.  _ He broke. The last bit of him finally broke. And the mesh net keeping the pieces from scattering was starting to loosen up.

_ They don’t care, don’t be a murderer, they don't care, don't be a murderer, they don't- _

“I don’t…” He’s interrupted by his sudden inability to breath.  _ Go back.  _ He could feel his hands shaking. He needed… what did he need? “I need a drink.” 

“ _ God damn it Kent.”  _  Marcus shoved Kent further into the couch. There’d been a bottle on the lamp stand but the force of Marcus’s shove shook the stand and sent the bottle over the edge. The echo of Marcus yelling and the glass shattering sent Kent further off the edge. 

“That was expensive.” Kent muttered. Mostly because he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? The little voice in his mind that sounded oddly (not oddly) like Alicia Zimmermann whispering to him that he should apologize. What it neglected to tell him was how, and why. 

“And good fucking riddance. Kent,  _ you need help.”  _ He kept saying that. But Kent didn't really know what that meant. Why did he care if he needed help? He was doing his job right? It shouldn't matter what he did as long as he could do his job. “You need help. I,  _ we _ need our friend, not just our captain. Where's the Kent that would show up at my place unannounced to play video games? Or broke diet with Jeff just to piss Alex off? Or took Tintin to Chuck E Cheese his rookie year because he mentioned that his parents had never wanted to deal with that?” 

“He never existed.”

“That's bullshit.” Swoops was bellowing again. His face contorted with pain and anger. The simple implication that it had all been a façade too unbearable apparently. Kent just didn't want to understand why this was such a problem. He didn't want to, but he did. He could feel his insides shatter at the realization that maybe he did have a problem. His mind swam in its muddled state of alcohol and anxiety through all the whispered ‘ _ don't be a murderer’ _ s and  _ ‘they don't care’ _ s, to see that. He really did need help, but did he  _ want  _ it?

Was Kent even ready for the answer to be ‘no’? Too many questions that Kent found he didn't have the answers for and the pressure of suddenly trying to think them up as he goes finally catches him and made it even harder to breathe. Made it hard to keep his eyes dry and his hands still. And.  _ And he really needed a drink right now.  _

The net was starting to rip. From the bottom left all the way up across him like a knife slashing through him and giving the outside world the weight of all his pieces. Kent slid down from the couch to the floor, finally letting his hands shake freely, letting his lungs struggle for breath and his eyes sting at the back with the pressure of tears. He was crying. He was humiliated and he, as he’d experienced before, expected to be left to rot in his own pitiful existence. Was this what it felt like to be at the top of the world?

But unlike the other times he’d let himself break the way he was, Marcus didn't leave. He sunk down to the floor with him, wrapped his arms around Kent and pulled him in. 

Kent was suddenly sixteen again, freshly kicked out and sitting on the Zimmermann’s floor. Tucked under Bad Bob Zimmermann’s chin, breaking because he  _ wasn't enough. He would never be enough for her.  _ Not only that, but how was he going to play hockey? His mother cried at the sight of him, of her  _ gay _ son. 

Turned out people were willing to turn a blind eye to a kid with no good parents if Bad Bob Zimmermann vouched for him. Turned out he could get a good lawyer and an almost immediate emancipation if he didn't think about who gave him the money. Turned out he couldn't be just friends with Bad Bob’s kid despite how angry Bad Bob’s kid looked whenever he did something to gain the praise of said Bad Bob. Turned out they’d burn out at an equal pace. But nobody cared about the kid from Rochester whose parents never loved him enough. 

“Nobody fucking cares.” Kent whispered into Marcus's chest. 

“I care. Jeff cares. Tintin cares. Hell, even Alex cares. This whole damn franchise cares about you Kent. The hell you think you haven't been traded all those times the rumor even showed up?”

“That last part isn't as comforting as you think it is, Swoops.” Kent tried for a smile and a laugh but what came out was a lot more pitiful than he’d anticipated. 

The door slammed against his wall. Kent was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to do that. Jeff led a march of boxes and stacks of paper. 

“Ok. We gave you an hour to fight like the married couple you two are.” Jeff said not minding in the least that he was interrupting their soul session. “Turns out there isn't a Chicken Soup for the Alcoholic Hockey Captains Soul.”

“That’s… a little specific.” Kent croaked. 

“But there is one for the addict. So we figured, why the fuck not?” Tintin added. Chickensfish walked in after him holding what looked to be a pamphlet for Alcoholics Anonymous. 

“Is saying here, if go ‘cold turkey’ look for doctor’s help. Why ‘cold turkey’? Why not ‘cold penguin’ or ‘hot turkey’ is making more sense.” Gregor set down the boxes. Kent was almost sure there would be all kinds of pamphlets in them. 

“There's nothing fucking anonymous about Kent Parson showing up for group counseling. I thought we agreed not to get those?” Adam, tintin, snapped, also dropping his box. That one was empty. 

“Is good information, fuck you.” Gregor flipped Tintin off. Tintin shrugged. 

“What the hell is happening?” Kent was furious, at them, at himself, at everything. Why the hell did they have to care? Why couldn't they just leave him alone to rot, like everyone else had? 

“We are helping you getting better. Is not what you talking about? Why we giving you hour before? For not talking?” 

“Fuck off Gregor.” Marcus growled pulling in Kent closer to him.  _ Shit _ . Kent had forgotten that they were still entangled. He was still crying. He was still desolate. Kent  _ hated  _ feeling like that, with too many questions and not enough good answers. 

“I’m not going to the  _ fucking _ junkie bin.” 

Calling it the junkie bin made him feel sick. But it was already said.

Kent did his best to pull away from Marcus but Marcus was as much a professional athlete as Kent was and also had a good eighty pounds on him, so all he really had to do was tighten his grip around Kent. Which in exchange made Kent want to punch him again and also regret trusting him. 

“Dude, you’re either doing rehab or getting a therapist or both, but you are not gonna do this by yourself. We won’t let you.” Jeff shrugged. 

“Go be a fucking father to your children and leave me the fuck alone.” Kent snarled. He didn’t stop trying to get away from Marcus. “That last part goes to all of you, you fucking mouth breathers.” 

“Is unnecessary insult, little sun-colored spitfire.” Gregor quipped, his out of place chipper attitude only served to light Kent up more. He’s never wanted to pick a fight with a group of hockey players more than right now, but he’s sure the coaches and rest of management would not appreciate if their goalie and part of their first line shoved fists in each others faces. So Kent settled for trying to quiet the little ugly gremlin that was feeding off of his thoughts and behavior.   Since it was still yelling at him that his friends didn’t actually care despite the fact that they were standing right in front of him and showed him that they did care even if it was just for their captain and not actually for Kent as a person. 

It’s that little voice that curiously (not curiously) sounds like Alicia Zimmermann tells Kent that maybe the captain and the person are so intertwined that caring for the captain meant caring for the person. But Kent found it easier to listen to the voice that was louder. 

Kent in his stupor and need to get away from Marcus didn’t notice Tintin walking up to him until he dropped a thick stack of business cards in his lap. Kent was more shocked that they managed to hit that many places in a day than he was that that many therapists had set up shop in Las Vegas. It was Las Vegas after all, home of addiction and all sorts of other problems, which usually meant business. 

“You are done now yes?” Gregor said casually. He took the empty boxes they’d been carrying and set them down on Kent’s kitchen table. It took him a moment to realize what those boxes were intended for. Now more than ever Kent could feel the phantom symptoms of withdrawal. It could just be the anxiety peaking as Marcus finally let go and stood up. 

“Get a mop in here or something, that broken bottle isn’t helping anything.” Marcus switched his grip form Kent’s entire torso to just Kent’s wrist but he could still feel the pressure on his chest compressing his arms to his sides, despite Marcus’s gentle pull. Kent found it easier to follow the movement and stand up than he had when Marcus had pushed him onto the couch. 

Kent had more bottles in his home than they did boxes. That didn’t stop any of them from pulling out what they could find and setting it next to the sink. Kent picked up a bottle, opened it and studied it, wondered if he’d get away with one last drink or if the brutes would tackle it out of his hands before he could even say cheers. 

“Can’t we just…” Kent finally,  _ finally  _ felt some of the tension leave his body. After all it didn’t matter how much he insulted them or tried to make them hate him, they’d stayed this long. Cared enough.  _ But would it be enough? Would he be enough? Can he do this? Would this kill him like he killed Zimms?  _

Zimms is alive.  _ Not his Zimms though, that man was a Zimms 2.0 a better man than Kent could ever be. You killed him. About time you died to, eh? _

“Parse? Parson. Hey Kent.” Kent looked away from the bottle he was holding up to Marcus. “Stay with us ok?”

“Yeah,” Kent stared at the drain intently and, as if his arm was the only part of him listening to the little quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him he deserved to be better, he poured the first one down the drain. “Yeah.” 


End file.
